


because you're mine (the tie that binds)

by therjolras



Category: 5 Seconds of Summer (Band)
Genre: 18x18, Alternate Universe - Soulmates, Implied/Referenced Homophobia, M/M, Oneshot, really bad historical references
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-09
Updated: 2016-01-09
Packaged: 2018-05-12 20:52:56
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,405
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5680435
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/therjolras/pseuds/therjolras
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Calum's not young by any standard, but neither is Ashton.</p>
            </blockquote>





	because you're mine (the tie that binds)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [wolfgenes (ruperts)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ruperts/gifts).



> Okay, so this was supposed to be finished MONTHS ago but then haha life caught up and original work and procrastination and fucking PINTEREST with it so instead of being nice and on time it's four days late. Oh well. HAPPY BIRTHDAY GAB I finished this this afternoon and it's got next to no plot to speak of but Cashton get to fall in love and grow old together so. So. I hope you like it. Because I wrote it for you and you're cool.

Calum Hood isn’t young. He’s not young by any standard, but when he steps into the classroom he feels not just not-young but  _ old.  _ Biologically he’s of an age with everyone in this room, fresh-faced and limber, but Calum’s been around long enough to guess age by the energy people give off and no one. No one in this room is any older than they look, just kids off on their next adventure. Calum  _ feels  _ old.

He finds a sea near the middle of the room and sits, and his leg thanks him. All around him kids chatter and share their stories, two minutes ‘til the bell; Calum fishes his copy of Mckee’s  _ Story  _ out of his bag and finds his place, starts reading. He’s been thinking a lot about other pastimes, since the injury. He’s made enough to be financially okay for a good while to come, but god only knows when he’ll start getting old. He’s gonna need something to pass the time.

A door closes, and around him kids fall silent. Calum marks his place and puts his book away and looks toward the front: as the instructor makes his way to his desk, three things occur to Calum. The first thing is, Professor Irwin looks young: if Calum were to guess, the same age as everyone else in the room. The second thing is that Professor Irwin is old: probably older than Calum, just judging by the way he moves and the tired smile he gives them all. The third thing is that Professor Irwin is beautiful: ten years ago, thirty years ago, that thought would have terrified Calum, sent him scuttling back into whatever closet he’d been living in. Even now there’s a funny twist in his gut, but hey: it’s a new age. Theoretically, Calum’s free to check out beautiful professors all he likes.

“Good morning, everyone, and welcome to world history,” Professor Irwin says. “No, I am not the TA, I am most certainly Professor Ashton Irwin. I was born in 1894, and let me tell you it’s been quite the long haul, but I’ve got plenty of stories to tell.” He smiles at the class. It occurs to Calum that both Professor Irwin’s smile and his accent are appealing. He sounds like home. He continues, “Anyway, I’m sure we’ve got a lot to cover, so let’s get started. You’ll find a copy of the syllabus…”

University’s starting to look up, Calum thinks to himself.

\---

After class ends, he limps to the front where Professor Irwin is clearing away his notes. The other man looks up when Calum approaches, and smiles again; something warm blooms in Calum’s chest. “Mr. Hood, number 25,” Irwin says. “Fancy seeing you here. I heard about the accident.” Calum frowns.

“You hea- you’re a Liverpool fan?” He asks, leaning against the desk. Irwin grins.

“I  _ played  _ for Liverpool, back in the fifties,” he says. “Irwin, no. 7. Always a pleasure to meet another man of the game.” He holds out his hand. Calum lets go of the edge of the desk to shake it.

“I’d no idea you played,” he says. “I was just glad to know I wasn’t the only one. Stagnant, I mean.” 

“I understand completely,” Irwin says. “Most of the staff here have been aging for years-- I reckon it’s a requirement of academia or something, and I’ll start getting gray hairs against my will. Do you have class, Calum?” He says it as an afterthought, and Calum has the funny suspicion that it’s a disappointing afterthought.

“I believe I do, er--” He halts.

“Ashton,” he says. “Call me Ashton. Or just call me-- that’s the saying these days, isn’t it?” They both laugh. 

“I’ll do that,” Calum says. “Call you. Ashton Irwin.” He offers Ashton a smile, and Ashton returns it. 

“Good to meet you, Calum Hood,” he says. “Go to class, first day can be your worst if you let it.” Calum nods and offers and awkward wave and limps for the door, and his leg protests at every step away from Professor Ashton Irwin.

\--

They fall together slowly, by degrees. Calum starts lingering after class at every chance he gets, seeking the solace of Ashton’s laugh in the horde of eager young minds and disapproving gray whiskers that academics consist of.  Minute-and-a-half greetings after class turn into walks between classes, and walks between classes turn into an invitation for coffee long after classes have finished; a coffee date turns into Ashton’s number in his phone, and Calum’s sure they’re the topic of many jokes, Professor and student all buddy-buddy, but at this point he doesn’t really mind. They get a regular corner table at the campus coffee shop, and they sit in the sunshine together as sunshine turns to fall. They talk, sure, discussing the finer and less-fine points of books they’ve read, griping about professors and obnoxious students, joking about how they KNOW that reboot’s not as good as the original (or maybe it is) because they saw the original when it came out and had the ability to think critically about it when they did. But more than anything else, they tell each other stories.

Ashton tells Calum about the wars, about cheesy songs and smoke and long lines of the polished and the dead. Calum tells him about his own wars, shiny smiles and straight lines and jerseys of every color. Ashton tells him about mountains and temples and strange faces everywhere from South America to the high places of Tibet and Kilimanjaro; Calum tells him about the dry places Ashton left behind, his childhood hiding behind closed doors and jerseys in an attempt to garner favor. 

(“When did you leave?” Ashton asks, because it took him a long time.

“As soon as I could,” Calum replies.)

One evening after coffee, Ashton walks Calum home.

The next time they’re together, Calum kisses him goodbye.

The time after that, Calum stays at Ashton’s.

It becomes more than company not long after that. Calum leaves his books at Ashton’s. Ashton leaves a sweater in Calum’s closet just in case. The number of jokes they hear increases by at least 150%, and a good few of them are nasty. Ashton’s hand closes around Calum’s after one of them, and Calum feels himself come to ground, steadied by the touch.

“I’ve heard it before,” Calum says. “It’s alright.” Ashton shakes his head, uncertain, and Calum pulls him into an empty office to ask him if he’s alright. Ashton shakes his head, slow and sad.

“I’ve never--” he begins, and stops. Then he begins again, “I’ve never done this before. Stepped out.  _ Been  _ out. I was ready for it, I wasn’t against it, but--”

“You weren’t  _ really  _ ready,” Calum says. Ashton nods, and for a moment he looks  _ very  _ young, just another kid taking the first step out of the closet, and the next moment Calum realizes: Ashton’s aging. His jaw is sharper, the lines around his eyes deeper, hell, the fall of his hair is changing. Calum’s pulse jumps into his throat.

“Well,” he manages to say. “I think you’ve got the rest of our lives to get there, if you get me.”

The jokes take an extra step after that, but in a more lighthearted direction. Ashton’s things migrate into Calum’s apartment a little faster, to the point where they’re carried in  _ en masse  _ and there’s a key on Ashton’s keychain. Ashton’s name goes to speed-dial status, and Calum’s name goes on Ashton’s medical information. Ashton’s waiting outside when Calum goes to have the last surgeries done to his leg. Calum takes Ashton to meet Mali-Koa and her husband, growing old and getting happy, and Ashton takes Calum to meet his mother and siblings, long since set in stone.

“It was scary,” he admits. “Watching them get older as I stood still. It kind of got to the point where I couldn’t stand being near them for too long, because I couldn’t decide who needed more pity: them growing old, or me, all alone.”

“Neither of you needed pity,” Calum tells him, lacing their fingers together. “They were exactly where they needed to be. And so were you, if a little more indirectly.” Ashton laughs, a funny hollow laugh, but a little hopeful too.

“I was exactly where I needed to be, when it brought me in time to meet you,” he says. “If a little indirectly.”

**Author's Note:**

> come shout at me on tumblr @captainpeggys if you feel so inclined. also tell me what you think because I live on affirmation and shit. BYE


End file.
